Chapter IV: Introduction (2)

And as I sat the birds hearkening thus, Me thought that I heard voices sodainly, The most sweetest and most delicious That ever any wight I trow truly Heard in their life, for the armony And sweet accord was in so good musike, That the voice to angels most was like.

At the last, out of a grove even by, That was right goodly and pleasaunt to sight,

I sie where there came singing lustily, A world of ladies; but, to tell aright Their great beauty, it lieth not in my might, Ne their array; neverthelesse I shall Tell you a part, though I speake not of all.

The surcotes white of velvet wele sitting, They were in cladde; and the semes echone, As it were a manere garnishing, Was set with emerauds one and one, By and by; but many a riche stone Was set on the purfiles, out of dout, Of colors, sleves, and traines round about.

As great pearles round and orient, Diamonds fine, and rubies red, And many another stone of which I went The names now; and everich on her head A rich fret of gold, which without dread Was full of stately riche stones set, And every lady had a chapelet

On her head of branches fresh and grene, So wele wrought and so marvelously That it was a noble sight to sene, Some of laurer, and some full pleasauntly Had chapelets of woodbind, and sadly Some of _agnus castus_ were also Chapelets fresh; but there were many of tho

That daunced and eke song full soberly, But all they yede in manner of compace, But one there yede in mid the company, Sole by herselfe, but all followed the pace That she kepte, whose heavenly figured face So pleasaunt was, and her wele shape person, That of beauty she past hem everichon.

And more richly beseene, by many fold, She was also in every maner thing, On her head full pleasaunt to behold, A crowne of golde rich for any king, A braunch of _agnus castus_ eke bearing In her hand; and to my sight truly, She lady was of the company.

And she began a roundell lustely, That “_Suse le foyle, devers moy_,” men call, “_Siene et mon joly couer est endormy_,” And than the company answered all With voices sweet entuned, and so small, That me thought it the sweetest melody That ever I heard in my life soothly.

And thus they came, dauncing and singing, Into the middes of the mede echone, Before the herber where I was sitting, And, God wot, me thought I was wel bigone, For than I might avise hem one by one, Who fairest was, who coud best dance and sing, Or who most womanly was in all thing.

They had not daunced but a little throw, When that I hearde ferre off sodainly, So great a noise of thundering trumpes blow, As though it should have departed the skie; And after that within a while I sie From the same grove where the ladies came out, Of men of armes comming such a rout,

As all men on earth had been assembled In that place, wele horsed for the nones, Stering so fast, that all the earth trembled: But for to speake of riches, and of stones, And men and horse, I trow the large wones, Of Pretir John, ne all his tresory, Might not unneth have boght the tenth party

Of their array: who so list heare more, I shall rehearse, so as I can, a lite. Out of the grove, that I spake of before, I sie come first of all in their clokes white, A company, that ware for their delite, Chapelets fresh of okes seriall. Newly sprong, and trumpets they were all.

On every trumpe hanging a broad banere Of fine tartarium were full richely bete; Every trumpet his lords armes bere About their neckes with great pearles sete Collers brode, for cost they would not lete,

As it would seem, for their schochones echone, Were set about with many a precious stone.

Their horse harneis was all white also, And after them next in one company, Came kings of armes, and no mo In clokes of white cloth of gold richly; Chapelets of greene on their heads on hie, The crowns that they on their scochones bere, Were set with pearle, ruby, and saphere,

And eke great diamonds many one, But all their horse harneis and other geare, Was in a sute according everichone, As ye have heard the foresaid trumpets were; And by seeming they were nothing to lere, And their guiding they did so manerly, And after hem came a great company

Of heraudes and pursevauntes eke, Arraied in clothes of white velvet, And hardily they were nothing to seke, How they on them should the harneis set; And every man had on a chapelet, Scochones and eke harneis indede, They had in sute of hem that 'fore hem yede.

Next after hem came in armour bright, All save their heades, seemely knightes nine, And every claspe and naile, as to my sight, Of their harneis were of red golde fine, With cloth of gold, and furred ermine Were the rich trappoures of their stedes strong, Wide and large, that to the ground did hong.

And every bosse of bridle and paitrell That they had, was worth, as I would wene, A thousand pound; and on their heades well Dressed were crownes of laurer grene, The best made that ever I had sene, And every knight had after him riding Three henchemen on him awaiting.

Of which every first on a short tronchoun His lordes helme bare, so richly dight, That the worst was worthe the ransoun

Of any king; the second a shield bright Bare at his backe; the thred bare upright A mighty spere, full sharpe ground and kene, And every childe ware of leaves grene

A fresh chapelet upon his haires bright; And clokes white of fine velvet they ware, Their steeds trapped and raied right Without difference as their lordes were, And after hem on many a fresh corsere, There came of armed knights such a rout, That they bespread the large field about.

And all they ware after their degrees, Chapelets newe made of laurer grene, Some of the oke, and some of other trees, Some in their honds bare boughes shene, Some of laurer, and some of okes keene, Some of hauthorne, and some of the woodbind, And many mo which I had not in mind.

And so they came, their horses freshly stering, With bloody sownes of hir trompes loud; There sie I many an uncouth disguising In the array of these knightes proud, And at the last as evenly as they coud, They took their places in middes of the mede, And every knight turned his horses hede

To his fellow, and lightly laid a spere In the rest; and so justes began On every part about here and there; Some brake his spere, some drew down hors and man, About the field astray the steedes ran; And to behold their rule and governaunce, I you ensure it was a great pleasaunce.

And so the justes last an houre and more; But tho, that crowned were in laurer grene, Wan the prise; their dints was so sore, That there was none ayent hem might sustene, And the justing all was left off clene, And fro their horse the ninth alight anone, And so did all the remnant everichone.

And forth they yede togider, twain and twain, That to behold it was a worthy sight,

Toward the ladies on the greene plain, That song and daunced as I said now right: The ladies as soone as they goodly might, They brake of both the song and dance, And yede to meet hem with ful glad semblaunce.

And every lady took full womanly By the hond a knight, and forth they yede Unto a faire laurer that stood fast by, With levis lade the boughes of great brede; And to my dome there never was indede Man, that had seene halfe so faire a tre; For underneath there might it well have be

A hundred persons at their owne plesaunce, Shadowed fro the heat of Phebus bright, So that they should have felt no grevaunce Of raine ne haile that hem hurte might, The savour, eke, rejoice would any wight That had be sicke or melancolious; It was so very good and vertuous.

And with great reverence they enclined low To the tree so soot and faire of hew; And after that, within a little throw, They began to sing and daunce of new, Some song of love, some plaining of untrew, Environing the tree that stood upright; And ever yede a lady and a knight.

And at the last I cast mine eye aside, And was ware of a lusty company That come roming out of the field wide, Hond in hond a knight and a lady; The ladies all in surcotes, that richely Purfiled were with many a rich stone, And every knight of green ware mantles on,

Embrouded well so as the surcotes were, And everich had a chapelet on her hed, Which did right well upon the shining here, Made of goodly floures white and red; The knightes eke that they in honde led, In sute of hem ware chapelets everichone, And before hem went minstrels many one,

As harpes, pipes, lutes, and sautry, Alle in greene; and on their heades bare Of divers floures made full craftely, All in a sute goodly chapelets they ware; And so dauncing into the mede they fare In mid the which they found a tuft that was All oversprad with floures in compas.

Whereto they enclined everichone With great reverence, and that full humbly; And, at the last, there began, anone, A lady for to sing right womanly, A bargeret in praising the daisie; For as me thought among her notes swete, She said “_Si douce est la Margarete_.”

Than they alle answered her in fere, So passingly well, and so pleasauntly, That it was a blisful noise to here, But I n’ot how it happed, suddainly, As about noone, the Sunne so fervently Waxe hote, that the prety tender floures Had lost the beauty of hir fresh coloures.

Forshronke with heat, the ladies eke to-brent, That they ne wist where they hem might bestow; The knightes swelt for lack of shade nie shent, And after that, within a little throw, The wind began so sturdily to blow, That down goeth all the floures everichone, So that in all the mede there left not one;

Save such as succoured were among the leves Fro every storme that might hem assaile, Growing under the hegges and thicke greves; And after that, there came a storme of haile, And raine in fere, so that withouten faile, The ladies ne the knightes n’ade o threed Drie on them, so dropping was hir weed.

And whan the storm was cleane passed away, Tho in white that stood under the tree, They felt nothing of the great affray, That they in greene without had in ybe To them they yede for routh and pite, Them to comfort after their great disease, So faine they were the helplesse for to ease.

Than I was ware how one of hem in grene Had on a crowne rich and well sitting, Wherefore I demed well she was a quene, And tho in grene on her were awaiting; The ladies then in white that were comming Toward them, and the knights in fere, Began to comfort hem, and make hem chere.

The queen in white, that was of great beauty, Took by the hond the queen that was in grene, And said, “Suster, I have right great pity Of your annoy, and of the troublous tene, Wherein ye and your company have bene So long, alas! and if that it you please To go with me, I shall do you the ease,

“In all the pleasure that I can or may;” Whereof the other humbly as she might, Thanked her; for in right ill array She was with storm and heat I you behight, And every lady then anone right That were in white, one of them took in grene By the hond, which whan the knights had sene,

In like wise ech of them tooke a knight Cladde in greene, and forth with hem they fare, To an hegge, where they anon right To make their justs they would not spare Boughes to hew down, and eke trees square, Wherwith they made hem stately fires great, To dry their clothes that were ringing weat.

And after that of hearbes that there grew, They made for blisters of the Sunne brenning, Very good and wholesome ointments new, Where that they yede the sick fast anointing; And after that they yede about gadering Pleasaunt salades which they made hem eat, For to refresh their great unkindly heat.

The lady of the Leafe than began to pray Her of the Floure (for so to my seeming They should be as by their array) To soupe with her, and eke for any thing, That she should with her all her people bring; And she ayen in right goodly manere, Thanked her of her most friendly cheare,

Saying plainely, that she would obay With all her hert, all her commaundement; And then, anon, without lenger delay The lady of the Leafe hath one ysent, For a palfray, after her intent, Arrayed well and faire in harneis of gold, For nothing lacked, that to him long shold.

And after that to all her company She made to purvey horse and every thing That they needed, and than full lustily, Even by the herber where I was sitting They passed all so pleasantly singing, That it would have comforted any wight; But then I sie a passing wonder sight.

For then the nightingale, that all the day Had in the laurer sate, and did her might The whole service to sing longing to May, All sodainly began to take her flight; And to the lady of the Leafe forthright She flew, and set her on her hond softly, Which was a thing I marveled of greatly.

The goldfinch eke, that fro the medler tree Was fled for heat into the bushes cold, Unto the lady of the Flower gan flee, And on her hond he sit him as he wold, And pleasauntly his winges gan to fold; And for to sing they pained hem both as sore, As they had do of all the day before.

And so these ladies rode forth a great pace, And all the rout of knightes eke in fere; And I that had seen all this wonder case, Thought I would assay in some manere, To know fully the trouth of this matere; And what they were that rode so pleasantly: And whan they were the herber passed by,

I drest me forth, and happed to mete, anone, Right a faire lady, I do you ensure; And she came riding by herselfe alone, Alle in white, with semblance ful demure, I salued her, and bad good aventure Might her befall, as I coud most humbly; And she answered, “My doughter, gramercy!”

“Madame,” quoth I, “if that I durst enquere Of you, I would faine of that company Wite what they be that past by this arbere?” And she ayen answered right friendly; “My faire doughter, all tho that passed hereby In white clothing, be servaunts everichone Unto the Leafe, and I my selfe am one.”

“See ye not her that crowned is,” quoth she, “All in white?”—“Madame,” quoth I, “yes:” “That is Diane, goddesse of chastite, And for because that she a maiden is, In her hond the braunch she beareth this, That _agnus castus_ men call properly, And all the ladies in her company,

“Which ye se of that hearbe chapelets weare Be such as han kept alway hir maidenheed: And all they that of laurer chapelets beare, Be such as hardy were, and manly in deed, Victorious name which never may be dede! And all they were so worthy of hir hond, In hir time that none might hem withstond.

“And tho that weare chapelets on their hede Of fresh woodbind, be such as never were To love untrue in word, thought, ne dede, But aye stedfast, ne for pleasaunce, ne fere, Though that they should their hertes all to-tere, Would never flit but ever were stedfast, Till that their lives there asunder brast.”

“Now fair madame,” quoth I, “yet I would pray Your ladiship, if that it mighte be, That I might knowe by some maner way, Sith that it hath liked your beaute, The trouth of these ladies for to tell me, What that these knightes be in rich armour, And what tho be in grene and weare the flour?

“And why that some did reverence to that tre, And some unto the plot of floures faire?” “With right good will my fair doughter,” quoth she “Sith your desire is good and debonaire, Tho nine crowned, be very exemplaire, Of all honour longing to chivalry, And those certaine be called the Nine Worthy,

“Which ye may see now riding all before, That in hir time did many a noble dede, And for their worthines full oft have bore The crown of laurer leaves on their hede, As ye may in your old bookes rede; And how that he that was a conquerour, Had by laurer alway his most honour.

“And tho that beare boughes in their hond Of the precious laurer so notable, Be such as were, I woll ye understond, Noble knightes of the round table, And eke the Douseperis honourable, Which they beare in signe of victorye; It is witnesse of their deeds mightily.

“Eke there be knightes old of the garter, That in hir time did right worthily, And the honour they did to the laurer, Is for by it they have their laud wholly, Their triumph eke, and martiall glory; Which unto them is more parfite richesse, Than any wight imagine can or guesse.

“For one leafe, given of that noble tree To any wight that hath done worthily, And it be done soe as it ought to be, Is more honour than any thing earthly. Witnes of Rome that founder was truly Of all knighthood and deeds marvelous, Record I take of Titus Livius.

“And as for her that crowned is in greene, It is Flora, of these floures goddesse, And all that here on her awaiting beene, It are such folk that loved idlenesse, And not delite in no businesse, But for to hunt and hauke, and pley in medes, And many other suchlike idle dedes.

“And for the great delite and pleasaunce They have to the floure, and so reverently They unto it do such obeisaunce, As ye may se.”—“Now faire Madame,” quoth I, “If I durst aske what is the cause and why, That knightes have the ensigne of honour, Rather by the leafe than the flour?”

“Soothly doughter,” quod she, “this is the trouth; For knightes ever should be persevering, To seeke honour without feintise or slouth; Fro wele to better in all manner thing; In signe of which with leaves aye lasting, They be rewarded after their degre, Whose lusty green May may not appaired be,

“But aie keping their beautie fresh and greene, For there n’is storme that may hem deface, Haile nor snow, winde nor frosts keene, Wherfore they have this property and grace; And for the floure, within a little space Woll be all lost, so simple of nature They be, that they no greevance may endure.

“And every storme will blow them soone away, Ne they last not but for a season; That is the cause, the very trouth to say, That they may not by no way of reason Be put to no such occupation.” “Madame,” quoth I, “with all mine whole servise I thanke you now, in my most humble wise.

“For now I am ascertained throughly, Of every thing that I desired to know.” “I am right glad that I have said sothly, Ought to your pleasure, if ye will me trow,” Quod she ayen, “but to whom do ye owe Your service? And which will ye honour, Tel me I pray, this yere? the Leafe or the Flour?”

“Madame,” quoth I, “though I least worthy, Unto the Leafe I owe mine observaunce:” “That is,” quod she, “right well done certainly; And I pray God to honour you avaunce, And kepe you fro the wicked remembraunce Of Malebouch, and all his crueltie, And all that good and well conditioned be.

“For here may I no lenger now abide, I must follow the great company, That ye may see yonder before you ride.” And forth as I couth most humbly, I tooke my leve of her, as she gan hie, After them as fast as ever she might, And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night,

And put all that I had seene in writing, Under support of them that lust it to rede. O little booke, thou art so unconning, How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede? It is wonder that thou wexest not rede! Sith that thou wost full lite who shall behold Thy rude langage, full boistously unfold. GEOFFREY CHAUCER, 1328–1399.

II.
=The Bee.=

“A bee among the flowers in spring is one of the cheerfullest things that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all enjoyment: so busy, and so pleased.” Any one who has wandered about the fields during the warmer months will assuredly agree with this opinion of Paley. The very hum of the bee, as it flies past us on its pleasant errand, in quest of some sweet flower, or returning with its dainty load, is one of the most cheery of the voices of summer. The movement of the little creature, also, is full of meaning, and attracts the eye as curiously characteristic of its nature; it generally flies in lines more or less direct; we see here nothing of the idle, roaming, vagrant flutter of the gaudy butterfly, and nothing of the doubtful, hesitating, over-cautious pause of the plodding ant. The instincts of the bee are all lively and vigorous; it seems conscious that wherever grass grows, there some blossom will be found to reward its search, and it moves steadily

onward until a head of clover, or perchance a prouder flower, offers the precious drop. And, alighting to gather its grateful harvest, how skillfully its work is carried on; other insects may show as much cleverness in attaining their end, but there are few indeed which accomplish their task so pleasantly. The wise little bee does no mischief; no violence marks her labors; the freshness of the flower remains unsullied by her passage; she leaves the gay petals and the green foliage alike uninjured; no plant suffers from her visits! There is nothing unsightly, nothing repelling or painful in any of her measures; all is order, nicety, and harmony. If we may believe Milton, to watch the bee at her task was a pleasure worthy of Paradise. Adam, when he awakens Eve, invites her to prune her vines, to prop her flowers, and to mark

. . . . “How the bee
Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweets.”

As a poetical accessory of rural life, the bee was much honored by the ancient writers, receiving at their hands far more notice than has fallen to her share in later times. The reader is already aware that the Fourth Georgic of Virgil, relating wholly to bees, takes the first rank among the most beautiful and perfect of Latin poems. Extracts from Sotheby’s translations of this Georgic are given among the following Selections. It is amusing to note some of the errors and misconceptions of the master regarding the habits of those little creatures; and yet it is generally admitted, that from the great attention paid to them, the ancients had more correct notions regarding the bee than on any other subject of natural history.

TO THE BEES.

FROM THE GREEK OF ZONAS.

Ye nimble, honey-making bees,
The flowers are in their prime;
Come, now, and taste the little buds
Of sweetly breathing thyme;
Of tender poppies all so fair,
Or bits of raisin sweet,
Or down that decks the apple tribe,
Or fragrant violet:
Come, nibble on, your vessels store
With honey while you can,
In order that the hive-protecting,
Bee-preserving Pan
May have a tasting for himself;
And that the hand so rude,
That cuts away the combs, may leave
For yourselves a little food.
_Translation of_ W. HAY

ON A BEE’S NEST.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANTIPHILUS.

O beautiful bee homestead,
With many a waxen cell,
Self-built—for hanging, so it seems—
That airy citadel!
An unbought blessing to man’s life,
Which neither plow nor hoe,
Nor axe nor crooked sickle,
Is needed to bestow;
A tiny vessel—and no more—
Wherein the busy bee
From its small body liquid sweets
Distilleth lavishly.
Rejoice, ye blessed creatures!
Regaling while ye rove,
Winged workers of nectareous food,
On all the flowers ye love.
_Translation of_ JOHN WILSON.

THE BEE.

FROM THE GREEK OF NICIAS, 280 B. C.

Many-colored, sunshine-loving,
Spring-betokening bee!
Yellow bee, so mad for love
Of early-blooming flowers—
Till thy waxen cell be full.
Fair fall thy work and thee,
Buzzing round the sweetly-smelling
Garden plots and bowers.
_Anonymous Translator_

MANAGEMENT OF BEES.

FROM THE FOURTH GEORGIC OF VIRGIL.

* * * * *

First, seek a station where no ruthless gale Dares the still hive and sheltered bees assail: Lest as they homeward droop, o’erdone with toil, Inclement blasts their loaded flight despoil; Far from the sheep that wasted earth devour, The wanton bird that bounds from flower to flower; Heifers whose roving steps the meadow bruise, And dash from springing herbs nectareous dews. There let no lizard, armed with burnished scale, Merops, or bird of prey, their wall assail, Nor Progne haunt, whose conscious plumes attest The blood-stained hand imprinted on her breast. These widely waste, and, seiz’d upon the wing, To feed their nest, the bee in triumph bring. But there let pools invite with moss array’d, Clear fount and rill that purls along the glade, Palms o’er their porch a grateful gloom extend, And the wild olive’s shelt’ring boughs defend. There where new kings the swarms at spring-tide lead, And bursting myriads gladden all the mead, Dim banks at noon may lure to cool repose, And trees with hospitable arms inclose. If sleep the stagnant pools, or currents flow, Huge stones and willows 'mid the water throw; That if a breeze across their passage sweep, And headlong drive the loiterer to the deep,

On many a bridge the bee may safely stand, And his wet plumes to summer suns expand. There all her sweets let savory exhale, Thyme breathe her soul of fragrance on the gale In dulcet streams her roots green casia lave, And beds of violets drink at will the wave. Alike, if hollow cork their fabric form, Or flexile twigs inclose the settled swarm; With narrow entrance guard the shelter’d cell, And summer suns and winter blasts repel. Dire each extreme; or winter cakes with cold, Or summer melts the comb to fluid gold. Hence not in vain the bees their domes prepare, And smear the chinks that open to the air; With flowers and fucus close each pervious pore With wax cement, and thicken o’er and o’er. Stor’d for this use they hive the clammy dew, And load their garners with tenacious glue, As birdlime thick, or pitch that slow distils In loitering drops on Ida’s pine-crowned hills And oft, ’tis said, they delve beneath the earth, And nurse in gloomy caves their hidden birth, Amid the crumbling stone’s dark concave dwell, Or hang in hollow trees their airy cell. Thou aid their toil! with mud their walls o’erlay, And lightly shade the roof with leafy spray. There let no yew its baleful shadow cast, Nor crabs on glowing embers taint the blast. Far from their roof deep fens that poison breathe, Thick fogs that float from bed of mud beneath, Caves from whose depth redoubled echoes rise, And rock on rock in circling shout replies. Now when the sun beneath the realms of night Dark winter drives, and robes the heavens with light. The bees o’er hill and dale, from flow’r to flow’r, In grove and lawn the purple spring devour, Sip on the wing, and, lightly bursting, lave Their airy plumage in its undimpled wave.

* * * * *

Ah, fav’rite scenes! but now with gather’d sail I seek the shore, nor trust th’ inviting gale; Else had my song your charms at leisure trac’d, And all the garden’s varied arts embrac’d; Sung, twice each year, how Pæstan roses blow, How endive drinks the rill that purls below,

How twisting gourds pursue their mazy way, Swell as they creep, and widen into day; How verdant celery decks its humid bed, How late-blown flow’rets round narcissus spread; The lithe acanthus, and the ivy hoar, And myrtle blooming on the sea-beat shore. Yes, I remember where Galæsus leads His flood dark-winding through the golden meads, Where proud Œbalia’s tow’rs o’erlook the plain, Once I beheld an old Corcyrian swain; Lord of a little spot, by all disdain’d, Where never lab’ring yoke subsistence gain’d, Where never shepherd gave his flock to feed, Nor Bacchus dar’d to trust th’ ungrateful mead, He there with scanty herbs the bushes crown’d, And planted lilies, vervains, poppies round; Nor envied kings, when late, at twilight close, Beneath his peaceful shed he sought repose, And cull’d from earth, with changeful plenty stor’d, Th’ unpurchas’d feasts that pil’d his varied board. At spring-tide first he pluck’d the full-blown rose, From autumn first the ripen’d apple chose; And e’en when winter split the rocks with cold, And chain’d the o’erhanging torrent as it roll’d, His blooming hyacinths, ne’er known to fail, Shed scents unborrow’d of the vernal gale, As 'mid their rifled beds he wound his way, Chid the slow sun, and zephyr’s long delay. Hence first his bees new swarms unnumber’d gave, And press’d from richest combs the golden wave; Limes round his haunts diffus’d a grateful shade, And verdant pines with many a cone array’d; And every bud that gemm’d the vernal spray, Swell’d into fruit beneath th’ autumnal ray. He lofty elms, transpos’d in order, plac’d, Luxuriant pears at will his alleys grac’d, And grafted thorns that blushing plumes display’d, And plains that stretch’d o’er summer feasts their shade. Ah! fav’rite scenes! to other bards resign’d, I leave your charms, and trace my task assign’d.

* * * * *

To each his part; age claims th’ entrusted care To rear the palace, and the dome repair; The young, returning home at dead of night, Faint, droop beneath the thyme that loads their flight.

Where’er a willow waves, or arbute grows, Or casia scents the gale, or crocus glows, Or hyacinth unfolds its purple hue, Flow’r, shrub, and grove, for them their sweets renew. Alike they labor, and alike repose; Forth from their gates each morn the nation flows; And when pale twilight, from the wasted mead, Bids the tir’d race, o’ercharg’d with spoil, recede, They seek their roof, their drooping frame revive, And shake with ceaseless hum the crowded hive. Deep calm succeeds, each laid within his cell, Where sleep and peace without a murmur dwell. If tempests low’r, or blustering Eurus sound, Prescient they creep their city walls around, Sip the pure rill that near their portal springs, And bound their wary flight in narrower rings, And with light pebbles, like a balanc’d boat, Pois’d through the air on even pinions float.

* * * * *

Not Lydia’s sons, nor Parthia’s peopled shore Mede, or Egyptian, thus their king adore. He lives and moves through all th’ accordant soul— He dies, and by his death dissolves the whole; Rage and fierce war their wondrous fabric tear, Scatter their combs, and waste in wild despair. He guards their works, his looks deep rev’rence draws, Crowds swarm on crowds, and hum their loud applause, Bear 'mid the press of battle on their wing, And, proud to perish, die around their king. Hence to the bee some sages have assign’d A portion of the God, and heavenly mind; For God goes forth, and spreads throughout the whole— Heaven, earth, and sea, the universal soul; Each at its birth from him all beings share, Both man and brute, the breath of vital air. There all returns, and loos’d from earthly chain, Fly whence they sprung, and rest in God again, Spurn at the grave, and fearless of decay, Live 'mid the host of heaven, and star th’ ethereal way.

* * * * *

If wintry dearth thy prescient fears create, Or rouse thy pity for their ruin’d state; With thymy odors scent their smoking halls, And fill th’ unpeopled cells that load their walls. There oft, unseen, dark newts insidious prey,

The beetle there, that flies the light of day— There feasts th’ unbidden drone—there ring the alarms Of hornets battling with unequal arms; Dire gnaws the moth, and o’er their portals spread The spider watches her aërial thread. Yet still, when most oppress’d, they mostly strive, And tax their strength to renovate the hive; Contending myriads urge exhaustless powers, Fill every cell, and crowd the comb with flowers. _Translation of_ W. SOTHEBY. PUBLIUS VIRGILIUS MARO, 70–19 B. C.

FROM SHAKSPEARE.

So work the honey-bees;
Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach
The art of order to a peopled kingdom.
They have a king, and officers of sorts;
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home:
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad:
Others, like soldiers, armed in their sting,
Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds,
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent royal of their emperor—
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing masons building roofs of gold;
The civil citizens kneading up the honey;
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o’er to executors pale
The lazy, yawning drone.
_Henry V., Act I., S. 2._

THE DRONE.

FROM “THE FEMININE MONARCHY, OR THE HISTORY OF BEES.”

The drone is a gross, stingless bee, that spendeth his time in gluttony and idleness; for howsoever he brave it with his round, velvet cap, his side gown, his full paunch, and his loud voice, yet is he but an idle companion, living by the sweat of others’ brows. He worketh not at all, either at home or abroad, and yet spendeth as much as two laborers; you shall never find his man without a good drop of the purest nectar. In the heat of the day he flieth abroad, aloft, and about, and that with

no small noise, as though he would do some great act; but it is only for his pleasure, and to get him a stomach, and then returns he pleasantly to his cheer.

CHARLES BUTLER, 1634.

MEMORY OF THE BEE.

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn, O’er thymy downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. ’Tis noon, ’tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the reach of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind, Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue Of varied scents, that charm’d her as she flew? Hail, memory, hail! thy universal reign Guards the least link of being’s glorious chain. SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE DEATH OF THE BEE.

FROM “SALMONIA.”

_Phys._ * * * Let me now call your attention to that Michaelmas daisy. A few minutes ago, before the sun sunk behind the hill, its flowers were covered with varieties of bees, and some wasps, all busy in feeding on its sweets. I never saw a more animated scene of insect enjoyment. The bees were most of them humble-bees, but many of them new varieties to me, and the wasps appeared different from any I have seen before.

_Hal._ I believe this is one of the last autumnal flowers that insects of this kind haunt. In sunny days it is their constant point of resort, and it would afford a good opportunity to the entomologist to make a collection of British bees.

_Poict._ I neither hear the hum of the bee, nor can I see any on its flowers. They are now deserted.

_Phys._ Since the sun has disappeared, the cool of the evening has, I suppose, driven the little winged plunderers to their homes; but see! there are two or three humble-bees which seem languid with the cold, and yet they have their tongues still in the fountain of honey. I believe one of them is actually dead, yet his mouth is still attached to the flower. He has fallen asleep, and probably died while making his last meal of ambrosia.

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.

SONNET.

The honey-bee, that wanders all day long,
The field, the woodland, and the garden o’er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Seeks not alone the rose’s glowing breast,
The lily’s dainty cup, the violet’s lips—
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely press’d
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity;
And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.
ANNE C. LYNCH.

]

III.
=Spring.=

Giles Fletcher is one of the old English poets but little known to the general reader in America. And yet he was the author of a poem of high merit. He was born about twenty years after Shakspeare, or in 1588, and came of a family marked by great poetical talent. John Fletcher, the celebrated dramatist and fellow-laborer of Beaumont, was a cousin, and it was his elder brother, Phineas Fletcher, who wrote “The Purple Island,” that singular and elaborate poetical allegory, carried out through twelve cantos, and relieved by much occasional beauty of thought and style. The father also, Dr. Giles Fletcher, has been ranked among the good poets of his day. The only work of Giles Fletcher, the son, which has been published, is of a religious character, “Christ’s Victory and Triumph,” a poem in four parts. It has never been reprinted entire in America, though full of fine passages, and marked throughout with originality and beauty. The

subjects are of course very much of the same nature as those of “Paradise Regained;” a comparison of the two poems, however, by no means diminishes our admiration for the work of Fletcher, especially when we bear in mind that he wrote half a century before Milton. In fact, “Christ’s Victory and Triumph” was, at the time it appeared, the finest sacred poem of any length in our language; it is full of a jubilant poetical eloquence and the earnest expression of strong religious feeling connected with the subject. Giles Fetcher, like his brother Phineas, was a clergyman of the Church of England, and led an uneventful life in his country parish of Alderton, Suffolk, where he died in 1623.

A description of Spring at Easter will, it is hoped, give the reader pleasure.

THE RETURN OF SPRING IN GREECE.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER, 100 B. C.

Hush’d is the howl of wintry breezes wild;
The purple hour of youthful spring has smiled:
A livelier verdure clothes the teeming earth;
Buds press to life, rejoicing in their birth;
The laughing meadows drink the dews of night,
And fresh with opening roses glad the sight:
In song the joyous swains responsive vie;
Wild music floats and mountain melody.
Adventurous seamen spread the embosomed sail
O’er waves light heaving to the western gale;
While village youths their brows with ivy twine,
And hail with song the promise of the vine.
In curious cells the bees digest their spoil,
When vernal sunshine animates their toil,
And little birds, in warblings sweet and clear,
Salute thee, Maia, loveliest of the year:
Thee, on their deeps, the tuneful halcyons hail,
In streams the swan, in woods the nightingale.
If earth rejoices with new verdure gay,
And shepherds pipe, and flocks exulting play,
And sailors roam, and Bacchus leads his throng,
And bees to toil, and birds awake to song,
Shall the glad bard be mute in tuneful spring,
And, warm with love and joy, forget to sing?
_Translation of_ ROBERT BLAND.

SPRING.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

Behold the young, the rosy spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing,
While virgin graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o’er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep.
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away,
And cultured field and winding stream
Are freshly glittering in his beam.
Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flow’ry bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine,
Clusters bright festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see
Nursing into luxury.
_Translation of_ T. MOORE.

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING.

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale, The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she flings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; The busy bee her honey now she mings; Winter is worn that was the flowers’ bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey, 1516–1547.

SPRING.

FROM THE “THISTLE AND THE ROSE.”

Quhen Merche wes with variand windis past, And Appryll had with hir silver shouris Tane leif at Nature, with ane orient blast, And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris, Amang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt Quhois harmony to heir it was delyt: In bed at morrow sleiping as I lay, Methocht Aurora, with her crystall ene In at the window lukit by the day, And halsit me with visage pale and grene; On quhois hand a lark sang, fro the splene, “Awak, luvaris, out of your slemering, Se how the lusty morrow dois upspring!”

Methocht fresche May befoir my bed upstude, In weid depaynt of mony diverse hew, Sober, benyng, and full of mansuetude, In bright atteir of flouris forgit new, Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, brown, and blew, Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus’ bemys; Quhil al the house illumynit of her lemys. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 1465–1530.

ON SPRING.

Sweet Spring, thou com’st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs, The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs. Sweet Spring, thou com’st—but, ah! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turns my sweets to sours. Thou art the same which still thou wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; But she whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air Is gone; nor gold, nor gems, can her restore. Neglected virtues, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

What doth it serve to see the sun’s bright face, And skies enamell’d with the Indian gold? Or the moon in a fierce chariot roll’d, And all the glory of that starry place? What doth it serve earth’s beauty to behold, The mountain’s pride, the meadow’s flow’ry grace, The stately comeliness of forests old, The sport of floods which would themselves embrace? What doth it serve to hear the sylvans’ songs, The cheerful thrush, the nightingale’s sad strains, Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs? For what doth serve all that this world contains, Since she for whom those once to me were dear, Can have no part of them now with me here? WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585–1649.

SONNET ON SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold, and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun, and clear, blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold, and rain. River and fount, and tinkling brook, Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold, and rain. CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS, 1391.

SPRING, AT EASTER.

FROM “CHRIST’S TRIUMPH AND VICTORY.”

But now the second morning from her bower,
Began to glister in her beams; and now
The roses of the day began to flower
In the Eastern garden; for heaven’s smiling brow,
Half insolent for joy, began to show:
The early sun came dancing lively out,
And the brag lambs ran wantoning about,
That heaven and earth might seem in triumph both to shout.

The engladdened Spring, forgetful now to weep,
Began to eblazon from her leafy bed;
The waking swallow broke her half-year’s sleep,
And every bush lay deeply purpured
With violets; the woods’ late wintry head
Wide flaming primroses set all on fire,
And his bald trees put on their green attire,
Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire.

And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms,
Of unshorn mountains, blown with easy winds,
Dandled the morning’s childhood in their arms;
And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines,
The under corylass[8] did catch the shines,
To gild their leaves: saw ne’er happier year
Such triumph and triumphant cheer,
As though the aged world anew created were.

Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire,
And stick’st thy habit full of daisies red?
Seems that thou dost to some high thought aspire,
And some new-found-out bridegroom mean’st to wed:
Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled—
So never let the spiteful canker waste you,
So never let the heavens with lightning blast you!
Why go you now so trimly drest, or whither haste you?

Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide
So often wanders from his nearest way,
As though some other way thy streams would slide,
And join salute the place where something lay?
And you, sweet birds, that, shaded from the ray,
Sit carolling, and piping grief away,
The while the lambs to hear you dance and play—
Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say?

And thou, fair spouse of Earth, that every year
Gett’st such a numerous issue of thy bride,
How chance thou hotter shin’st, and draw’st more near?
Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied,
That in one place for joy thou canst not bide:
And you, dead swallows, that so lively now,
Through the slit air your winged passage row;
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow?

Ye primroses and purple violets,
Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed,
And woo men’s hands to rent you from your sets,
As though you would somewhere be carried,
With fresh perfumes and velvets garnished?
But ah! I need not ask; ’tis surely so;
You all would to your Saviour’s triumph go:
There would you all await, and humble homage do.

There should the Earth herself, with garlands new,
And lovely flowers embellish’d adore:
Such roses never in her garland grew;
Such lilies never in her breast she wore;
Like beauty never yet did shine before.
There should the Sun another Sun behold,
From whence himself borrows his locks of gold,
That kindle Heaven and Earth with beauties manifold.

There might the violet and primrose sweet,
Beams of more lively and more lovely grace,
Arising from their beds of incense, meet;
There should the swallow see new life embrace
Dead ashes, and the grave unvail his face,
To let the living from his bowels creep,
Unable longer his own dead to keep;
There Heaven and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep.

* * * * *

“Toss up your heads, ye everlasting gates,
And let the Prince of Glory enter in!
At whose brave volley of sidereal states,
The sun to blush, and stars grow pale, were seen;
When leaping first from earth, he did begin
To climb his angel wings: then open hang
Your crystal doors!” so all the chorus sang
Of heavenly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang.

Hark! how the floods clap their applauding hands,
The pleasant valleys singing for delight;
The wanton mountains dance about the lands,
The while the fields, struck with the heavenly light,
Set all their flowers a smiling at the sight;
The trees laugh with their blossoms, and the sound
Of the triumphant shout of praise, that crown’d
The flaming Lamb, breaking through heaven, hath passage found.
GILES FLETCHER, 1588–1623.

THE AIRS OF SPRING.

Sweetly breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter’s ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of th’ East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; Whose disheveled tresses shed Pearls upon the violet bed; On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, The halcyon sits and builds her nest; Beauty, youth, and endless spring, Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws Down whole forests when he blows, With a pregnant, flowery birth, Canst refresh the teeming earth. If he nip the early bud; If he blast what’s fair or good; If he scatter our choice flowers; If he shake our halls or bowers; If his rude breath threaten us, Thou canst stroke great Æolus, And from him the grace obtain, To bind him in an iron chain. THOMAS CAREW, 1600.

RETURN OF SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH.

God shield ye, heralds of the spring,
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,
Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird,
That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.

God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,
And he whom erst the gore
Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,
I welcome ye once more.

God shield ye, bright embroider’d train
Of butterflies, that on the plain,
Of each sweet herblet sip;
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow
To kiss them with your lip.

A hundred thousand times I call—
A hearty welcome on ye all:
This season how I love!
This merry din on every shore,
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar
Forbade my steps to rove.
0_Anonymous Translation._ PIERRE RONSARD, 1524–1586.

ODE TO SPRING.

Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter’s blooming child—delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crown’d;

From the green islands of eternal youth,
Crown’d with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade,
Turn, thither turn thy step,
O thou whose powerful voice,

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding wind,
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thine own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs, and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favored youth,
That prompts their whispered sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores—those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds;
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear’s green stem,

And feed the flowering osier’s early shoots;
And call those winds which through the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o’er the dale;
And watch with patient eye,
Thy fair, unfolding charms.

O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead through the cold, moist air,
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woos

The earth’s fair bosom; while the streaming vail
Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade
Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower’s scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy,

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For O, not all that Autumn’s lap contains
Nor Summer’s ruddiest fruits
Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD, 1743–1825.

THE FLOWER.